Likhaan: The UP Institute of Creative Writing

Likhaan: The UP Institute of Creative Writing announces that it is now accepting submissions for possible inclusion in the third issue of Likhaan: the Journal of Contemporary Literature.

The guidelines follow:
1. For its third issue, Likhaan: the Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature 3, will accept submissions in the following genres, in both English and Filipino:
• Short stories ranging from about 12 to 30 pages double-spaced, in 11-12 points Times Roman, New York, Palatino, Book Antique, Arial or some such standard font. (A suite of short prose pieces will be considered.)
• A suite of four to seven poems, out of which the editors might choose three to five. (Long poems will be considered in lieu of a suite.)
Creative nonfiction (essays, memoirs, profiles, etc.), subject to the same length limitations as short stories (see above).
• Critical/scholarly essays, subject to the same length limitations as short stories (see above)
• Excerpts from graphic novels, or full short graphic stories, for reproduction in black and white on no more than 10 printed pages, 6” x 9.” (Excerpts should be accompanied by a synopsis of the full narrative.)
2. All submissions must be original, and previously unpublished.
3. All submissions must be accompanied by a biographical sketch (no more than one or two short paragraphs) of the author, including contact information (address, telephone number, e-mail address).
4. Submissions may be e-mailed to likhaanjournal@gmail.com, or posted to The Editors, Likhaan Journal, UP Institute of Creative Writing, Rizal Hall, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City, 1101.
5. All submissions should be received (whether by e-mail or post) no later than May 31, 2009.
6. All submissions will undergo a strict pre-screening and blind refereeing process by the editors, and a panel of referees composed of eminent writers and critics from within and outside the University of the Philippines .

7. Writers whose work will be accepted for publication will receive a substantial cash payment and a copy of the published journal.
8. The editors reserve the right to edit any and all materials accepted for publication.
9. The editors may also solicit or commission special, non-refereed articles for publication outside of the aforementioned genres and categories to enhance the editorial content and balance of the journal.
10. Please direct any and all inquiries to the editors at likhaanjournal@gmail.com

My Freedom

The first historical place I remembered visiting was Rizal’s house in Calamba, Laguna, and that was during a field trip in high school. I couldn’t remember my parents ever brought me to a children’s museum even to Luneta Park prior to that. I knew they were busy doing something else like working hard so as to send me to a better school; to learn about history and other things in books. I didn’t want their hard work to go in vain, so I read as if every word would equal every drib of sweat they make.
Every page turned was an answer to a faint cry of the universal perplexing question: “Who am I?” I was like a little girl returning to her bird pet, dead in the cage, leaning with her elbows on the windowsill, suddenly seeing herself as part of the complete story, or a young adult who found, for the first time, a teacher who awakens something and she begins to breathe as an individual, conscious of her strength. I became fascinated about knowing my country’s past; how Filipino fought for freedom, whichever weapon they used, and was amazed that pen proved to be the sharpest of all. I understood that freedom was an accomplishment that all Filipino acquired because they set their mind to that direction; and to love freedom is a tendency that I was born with.
After many years, no longer guided by teachers or parents on a school field trip, I had a chance to visit Fort Santiago in Intramuros; another historical place in my list that would substantiate the things I read in history books. It was a Saturday morning, a day off from work and I was not yet attending Creative Writing class. The pale sky was clear and the sun is generous of its radiance. Most sojourners were young Koreans and elementary Girl Scout students sweating on their green uniform, yellow kerchief tied under their starched collar - I wondered why I never had a trip like this in my elementary years. I also saw young white couple, leaning over the lagoon, a mile farther from the ticket booth. They chose to spend their date strolling under the heat of the sun rather than watch a movie or hold hands while walking along the air-conditioned mall.
In the pathway, the once active powder cañons that guarded the massive walls and surrounding broad squares, grand houses and churches was preserved; still like a sleeping beast– the remnants of war and oppression.

For admission fee of 15 Pesos (for student) and 40 Pesos (for adult), I had a concrete view of the rich accounts of the past. During the Japanese occupation in World War II, Fort Santiago was used as a headquarters for the occupying forces where hundreds of civilians and guerillas were imprisoned, tortured and executed. It was one of the oldest fortifications built in Manila.
Restoration & maintenance of the fort began in 1951 under the National Parks Development Committee. In 1992, management was turned over to the Intramuros Administration. Since then, the fort was made open to the public daily. There are guides donned in their 19th century military uniforms stationed throughout the grounds. Their plastic nametags and small radios though are probably not authentic.
The buildings that make up the Intramuros are not the original structures of the past centuries. Despite its aged looks with crumbling wall and battlements, cobblestone streets, and wrought iron balconies, many of the buildings are reconstructions of the originals, some rebuilt more than once. Three centuries of typhoons, floods, fires and earthquakes have also taken their toll. Numerous atrocities were committed in the fort including the deaths of over six hundred people crammed into subterranean cells who drowned during high tides and when Pasig River flooded the cells in February 1945.
What I like most among the many stories in regards to Philippine history connected with the fort is the account on Jose Rizal, the Filipino poet, patriot, and later a martyr for independence who was imprisoned here before his execution by firing squad in the nearby Luneta Park. Visitors can see the cell and literally walk in his final footsteps. Painted footprints trace his final walk from the cell to the fort's gate and his execution site. On his last night in his cell he composed his last and best known work. It was untitled originally but is now commonly known as “Mi Ultimo Adios" (My last Farewell). One of the buildings has been turned into a museum called Rizal Shrine in honor of his memory –you have to pay 10 Pesos to get in. The translation of Ultimo Adios to several languages -Spanish, German, French, Portuguese, Chinese and Tagalog to name a few - was displayed here. Inside was several stuff of Rizal like old business card, a little smaller than the size of a ¼ index card, rusty old medical tools, fencing sword and dumbbell. There were also several furniture pieces displayed as part of Rizaliana Collection. These furnishings were turned over to the Philippine government on 1948 by Trinidad Rizal, unmarried sister of Dr. Jose Rizal. The washbasin that Rizal used in his Hong Kong office was also showcased along with his ensemble of Americana and boots. The four post bed, including his bedpan, from their house in Laguna added an interesting piece in the museum. The three century old ‘lampara’ where Rizal hid the ‘Last Farewell’, before he was executed, was encased with a glass like a spectacle of precious gem in auction.
The great world war had come and gone. These featured artefacts were the only remains of it. Luckily, the world has been changed for me; I was not to survive it, but to preserve it and to make sure that I would keep the world changing for the next generation who would inherit it.
The pale sky has turned orange to vermilion when I left the fort. Pride was tight in my chest knowing that the free spirit of the Filipino persisted; it recurred, because it has never been successfully wiped out, by flood, earthquake, fire, or oppression.

Reading is like making love

I was reading An E.B. White Reader and came across a passage that tickled my sensuous mind. It stated that reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy. To understand the passage more, I pictured a more concrete image (one thing I learned in poetry).I envisioned a couple making love and conjured that intimate moment they shared in a dim lit room like there's no other world exists beyond it. And as in sexual experience, there are never more than two person present in the act of reading - the writer, who is the impregnator, and the reader who is the respondent.

To Find the Metaphor

I was thinking of doing a collection of poetry that goes on the theme of taboo, in a way, giving it a voice of existence. It was actually suggested by Dr. Marj. during one of our workshop classes. It started by composing 'When Thunder Strikes' followed by 'Candlewick'. Now I have to find a new metaphor and do the crazy little thing called poetry. Where to find it? that I do not know. Maybe I'll walk (with someone) around Manila, just like what Reg did to rub off the 'cabin fever', and try to feed my senses with things; the cobblestone street, the iron balconies of Intramuros or the well maintained grasses of its golf course, the tee girls while holding up big umbrella, the 'mani' vendors, the non stop jeepneys along the road, or I could just watch the ennui of the sky (still with someone).

Now I'd better find that someone(besides two is always better than one), then it would be nicer to find the metaphor together.

The Master Rapper Wrapped it up

Francis M. died of Leukemia at the age of 44.

I was in High School when his rap career was soaring high. I remember I made a book binder out of card board with his poster in the front cover.

Stolen Survey

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?

No, but unfortunately I have the most cliche name of all. darn!

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?

The other night. I just feel like crying.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?

no, I like Dr. Marj's penmanship hahaha!

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?

Salmon/blue marlin/steak

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?

no but I like to have one.


6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

Definitely. we'll be like sisters since I don't have one.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?

all the time, especially to conceited type of person.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?

Yes, thank God.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?

no dammit! I still want to get old and writing.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?

no, I don't eat cereal

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?

I don't, I take it off with my other feet.

12. WHERE IS/ARE YOUR FAVORITE PLACE(S) TO VISIT?

Library, every Saturday

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?

vanilla and Strawberry combine in Fruits in Ice Cream!

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?

Face features...clothes, lol...accent too...

15. RED OR PINK?

Red

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?

I'm shifty, impatient. (wish I'm not)

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?

Kuya Glenn,

18. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?

I'm not wearing pants or shoes now.

19. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

sound from the stand fan

20. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?

Red

21. FAVORITE SMELLS?

fresh parchment, book pages, freshly mown grass.

22. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?

Rangi Harris


23. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

Tennis


24. HAIR COLOR?

black

25. EYE COLOR?

black

26. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?

yes I have to or I'll be blind.

27. FAVORITE FOOD?

Spicy, sea food, pizza,

28. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?

happy endings, but since Adam Sandler said happy endings doesn't happen in real life, I'll just shift to SCARY.

29. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED ON THEATER?

When I Met you (didn't like it much!)

30. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?

Sleeveless Striped black and gray with lace strap

31. SUMMER OR WINTER?

summer

32. HUGS OR KISSES?

both

33. FAVORITE DESSERT?

Ice cream with rock melon or any fruit on top.


34. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?

Reading Poetry (Millet), Passages (Jing P. Hidalgo)

35. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?

i don't use one

36. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?

Tayong Dalawa

37. FAVORITE SOUND(S)?

sound from a kiss

38. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?

I like both

39. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?

Australia

40. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?

I can be stupid without even trying

41. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

Paranaque City


42. WHAT IS THE CRAZIEST THING YOU HAVE EVER DONE?

Give up my apartment, quit my job

43. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER?

haven't met him.

down and sick

I don't really feel well today. Poor thing!

not so good

I'm a scrabble addict, I play actual and online game. Lately, I played a lot online via lexulous application in facebook. I wouldn't say I'm good, neither I am bad. But, I make sure I played my best each time, to give my opponent a nice game. One time, my opponent was from UK. We chatted a little while playing. He asked me where I'm from and I told him. He said, "You are from the Philippines and you are this good?" I felt all my blood went to my head as I took it as an insult more than a compliment.

" I am good because I am from the Philippines", I told him. Then went on and finished the game. Maybe it was hard for him to believe that someone from the Philippines was good so he asked for a rematch. Walang kadala dala.

horror buff

My usual bonding moment with my brother happens every time we watch dvd, and it's a must that the movie is not only scary, but also disturbing with bloodcurdling scenes e.g. Wrong Turn, Saw I-IV, Mad House. This time, thank God, he chose a bit "tamer". It's a werewolf thriller, about 2 siblings bitten by werewolf and eventually acquired the sign of the beast (a 5 point end that reveals a star if you connect them) in the palm. I didn't find this kind of film amusing unless infused with some kind of romance or adventure, but my brother enjoyed it especially when he knew I'm watching. Aside from being a horror buff, I guess he's also a sort of a masochist, enjoying to see me miserable and disgusted over blood gushing through the victim's body. At the end, my indifference over horror film remained, but to see my brother engrossed and lost in this kind of world, I think, I might give it another chance. In fact, Underworld Evolution was the next dvd in line.

Finding my Place in Taboan

The melodic tribal sound of Kolintang, played by the students, seeped through the Bulwagang Rizal in UP Diliman as the Taboan Writer’s Festival was about to begin. I stood in the outermost corner of the hall, after I signed my name at the entrance. My eyes searched for friends who also want to witness and experience the first Philippine International Writers Conference. After all, it marked a significant event in the Philippines as the country celebrates the month of February as the National Arts Month. I didn’t come to do a speech or sign a newly published book, and definitely not an official participant (my professor said you have to write a book first to be one), so I didn’t get free bags, books and other freebies. My presence was made merely to be a silent spectator, who dreamed of making a difference in my country, but is yet to find her rightful place in the solitary world of writing,

I joined my friends who arrived earlier, a moment before the program began. We immediately spotted Dr. Marj Evasco who waved her hand to greet us. Beside her was the National Artist for Literature, Francisco Sionil Jose, who was wearing his signature hat; clutch purse tucked in his right arm, and a lacquer-finished cane between his legs matched his simple elegant look. We walked our way to where they were seated and Dr. Marj was quick to introduce him to us.
“Meet the national artist”
“They’re my students” Dr. Marj quickly added, turning her head to him.
My friends began to rummage for their digital cameras inside their bags, determined not to let this rare occasion passed without a picture with the famous author. I, who happened not to own one, was able to shake his hand first. On the spot, he asked me, “What do you write?”, I startled like a child caught playing instead of doing her homework, but I regained my composure and replied that I am now learning to write the art of lies and poetry. I moved on after I mastered “to do” and grocery lists. His eyes disappeared as he smiled and said everyone has to start somewhere.

Later, in his speech, Francisco Sionil Jose left a statement worth pondering about: "We are writers, but what impact do we have on our history? We do not make the decisions that alter the nation's destiny. And what can the solitary writer do now that will make a difference?... We must bear this duty, endure it, if we are to be true not just to the vocation we have chosen but to this land which sustains us, which gave us life and reason to be."
I started thinking, the world is in a bad situation, whether making an impact or changing one’s nation is overwhelming, others would think it’s impossible. Who would listen and honestly believed that writing was not only a diversion, but deliverance; not a temporary relief but a resolution? But John Steinback said, “A good writer always works at the impossible”. As a reader and as an aspiring writer, I have seen how writers served as a rescue for our tired, overcrowded planet by telling stories that connect readers to all the people on earth. To hear that the work you do inspires someone else to be creative, makes everything worth it. And to hear about it is a gift. Words are the most powerful tools at our disposal. With them, writers have saved lives and taken them, brought justice and confounded it, started wars and ended them. Writers can change the way we think and transform our definitions of right and wrong.
Whenever I write fiction or poetry, I tried to identify my own subject, thread the theme and the subject into the work without becoming didactic. My efforts at both scales are required to truly make a difference and I see my future as offering opportunities for continued growth at both. I did not see it as impossibility. To succeed, maybe, I need to read more and surf gracefully with the waves of life.
Franciso Sionil Jose’s speech ended, audience applauded. In Cebuano, Taboan means “meeting place”, and the festival was definitely a good place to be with the crowd of brilliant minds, ideas, and writers. Whether I was sitting down or standing up in the outermost corner of the hall, being a part of the event was worth enough. After all, I came to observe, listen and shake hands with literary talents whose works I have read and admired. And that would be all...for now.

suggestions and ink

I didn't attend my last class today, but I joined my friends in Mc Donald's to eat, and later in Starbucks to bond and do our own little group of poetry workshop. Come to think of it, we also stayed there for 3 hours just like in normal workshop class.
I'm so thankful of their input on my poem. I especially like Eric's suggestion of restructuring the "Scrabble Game" into a real form of the game where words would read like in the actual board game. I know I still have to sweat a lot before it passed the more critical eye without crumbling, but now I'm just so excited. i think I'm gonna use Reg's Penman brown ink to write this one.

It so nice to have (literary) friends! hihi!

one word at a time

I'm happy I already finished the Tagalog poem, Rosas, I was working on, but I still have to finish commentaries for poetry workshop though. I submitted my event narrative sketch for CNF class, now moving on to literary account of a place.

I'm taking one step at a time... writing one word at a time.

Candlewick

tip of a core, alight
burning;
a heart encaged,

Consumed by the flame,
melting;
trap in the middle
of a ring

While the concubine,
hides in the dark.


...still working on it for my poetry workshop class.

schedule

Feb. 21 Workshop #4
Feb. 28 Workshop #5
March 7 Independent Study to revise poems and compose new ones for the folio requirement
March 14 Independent Study to revise poems and compose new ones for the folio requirement
March 21 Independent Study to revise poems and compose new ones for the folio requirement
March 28 Submission of one new poem for workshop with Mookie and Victor
April 2 Thursday Workshop with Mookie and Victor (Venue TBA, GO1 and GO2 joint) 1 - 5 p.m.
April 4 Independent Study to revise poem/s
April 11 Holiday: Black Saturday
April 18 Submission of Final Poetry Folio (with five poems) ready for publication
April 20 Monday Course Card Distribution

I wish I could be as organize as this term schedule.

Rosas

Darating ang panahon
‘di na ‘ko kayang
buhatin ng dalawa

Kapag ang talulot ng rosas
ay mangitim at malanta
Kapag napagod
at yumuko na ang sanga
H’wag mo sanang itapon
mumunti kong alaala

Tuyong bulaklak
na minsa’y nagdulot ng saya
H’wag sanang limutin
Maski na kailan pa
H’wag ilagay sa kahon
na may disenyong magara
H’wag din sa paso
o isabog sa lupa
Nais kong humimlay
Sa mga aklat at pahina
Nang sa’yong pagbabasa
Muli tayong magkasama


an image of a dying rose came to my mind and an urge to write in Tagalog could not be contained.Language finds its way back to origin, back to my own.

A Game of Scrabble

one square board
across each other, love
your turn,
then you grope for word
my turn,
then I grope for meaning.

short short stories

I decided to read Japanese stories written by Yasunari Kawabata, translated to English by L.Dunlop & J.M.Holman. The stories were fascinating.They were like Haiku, in terms of length(very Japanese). Next time I'll read Japanese Poetry.

Neruda in MRT

Spanish version

cuando mis pasos van
cuando vuelven mis pasos
niegame el pan, el aire,
la luz, la primavera,
pero tu risa nunca
porque me morira

Tagalog version

kapag ako ay umalis
kapag ako ay bumalik
ipagkait mo na sa akin ang tinapay,
ang hangin, ang liwanag at ang tagsibol
huwag lamang ang iyong ngiti
dahil ito'y aking ikasasawi

It is incongruous to find poetry in MRT, but its incongruousness that catches my interest. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but no, Pablo Neruda's poem was speaking to every passenger who went in and out of the train as if saying "hey look up here and read me". Somehow I felt that pride when I gave up my seat, stood closer and recited the poem in my head(I fight the urge not to recite it aloud because people might think I'm a broken-hearted romantic, or worst, mad.) Before I got off the train, in Vito Cruz station, I noticed people started looking up and probably resisting not to read aloud.

Now, at least, someone is paying attention.

portraitist

My mother told me that she once owned a life-size portrait of Paul McCartney. She said my father gave it to her when he was courting her, but the pencil-sketched was ruined by a big storm. I didn't believe her, since I didn't have a proof and because I had never seen my father actually sketch or remembered him helping me with my art project during my elementary days. It was my brother who actually drew for me.

Once, (out of boredom)I tried my hand sketching James Van Der Beek, David Dachovny and Brad Pitt and my mother said, "you were just like your father".

It 's been a terrible day

just because I have been in front of the computer the whole day and i end up with nothing insightful to write. It is worse than being sick. Don't you think so? Yes I think so too. (sigh!)
It's terrible than a shoot out in Edsa or not winning the 270million Lotto jackpot. (pufff!!!)

Stopping Em

A Reading of Non-stop by Em Mendoza


The poem gives me an image of a clock to associate with the exposition. The representation of the hand on the first stanza and the other hand on the second stanza makes a fit for the two hands of a clock.
The utterer in the poem is quite indistinctive. The line /from eight to five/ gives a very feeble hint about the character. Thus, the personality of the character engaged in the experience provokes very little effect. He is merely describing that he labours every minute, but fails to evoke feelings how he spent his labouring. Lines such as /Struggling to cross the/ Distance between hours/All the things that/ I am measured/ do not give an ignition to the reader’s mind, since they are written in abstract.
The last stanza, although portrays a great torment by the crucified and cursed hands, is less evocative. It doesn’t paint a clear picture of what the poem really wants to say; the insight is not properly articulated. Edith Tiempo, in her book Poetry through Image and Statement, states that what makes an object poetic is the idea or insight into the human condition that the particular object generates in the poem, and which is consequently evoked in the reader as articulated properly.
The irregular pattern of the poem may be improved by condensing the lines. The poet may refer to what he wants to clarify or emphasize in his subject or material.

attempting to sculpt like Mookie

A Reading of the poem Here is a Chisel and Here is a Mallet by M.Katigbak

The relationship of the images – the chisel, the mallet, and the lovers – is coupled to stir emotions to comprehend an analogy of love - a rough kind of love to others, a passionate kind for some. The diverse association of lovers and sculpting tool – a chisel and a mallet – enforce a paradox and their relationship provides the means towards elucidation of the poem.

The form or the arrangement of words is very contemporary. The spacing between words achieves the element of ‘beat’ which is involved by the pounding of the mallet and shaping of the chisel.
Each one withstands how chisel nicks where mallet pound,
marbles slanted scanted to resemble
a curve a shoulder a bone
A man A woman Each one
It is as if sound and sense blends, and the rhythm do not limit its effect on sound alone. This rhythm also directs and controls the intellectual and emotional flow of the poem.

The presentation of the experience is witty and tricky at the same time; an opening of direct natural flow on fifteen lines, yet resolves a quiet impact on the final line –/if they’re to be believed, then love/– leaves a reader unprepared for intensity. The simple description reveals a sudden revelation, enlarging the value of the whole experience by charging with emotional significance, thus lifting a unified effect- a universal analogy.

Pine and a Cup of Tea

Still in her sleeping gown under a silky floor-length floral robe, short silvery curled hair still undone. Rae, a welcoming Australian in her mid 60’s was standing behind a counter stood in the midst of a small country kitchen, busy making a healthy breakfast I would certainly have in my twenty-eight years of existence. She was making a fruit salad topped with yogurt. She peeled a banana and cut it in bite slices, which she did exactly to other three tropical fruits laying on the table. Back home, I normally had fruit salad with calorie-rich milk only after meal, its called dessert. Though eating dessert as breakfast, and nothing else but main course, was unusual, I nibbled it, swallowed it, and the most interesting was, I felt stuffed. “Not a bad way to shed some pounds!” I said to myself.
It was summer in Australia when I went two years ago. I was invited by a friend, a former classmate, who offered a free board and lodging. Without much persuasion and no more thinking twice, I packed my things and bought a ticket. There I met an old lady who became good acquaintance and invited me to stay to her house for a couple of days which extended to a couple more.
We sat around a maple-colored wooden table in the back porch while having tea (very Aussie, I thought). We exchanged delightful chats like places she and her husband visited, places they still ought to visit, her country, my country, which she pronounced the last syllable as “pine” like pine tree. I didn’t make a fuss out of it nor did I bother to correct her. Coming from her seemed like there was nothing wrong. Maybe because I was fascinated by her accent, or maybe hearing it from a foreign lip sounded sweeter than any fruit dessert. It makes me smile writing about it now. It was a simple phonetic flaw which reminded me of two diverse cultures that once converged over a cup of tea.
She excused herself for seconds, and came back with an atlas which she laid open on the table. She told me she and her husband had been to Vietnam, China and other Asian countries, but not yet to Philippine. She leaned forward on the table, and the world became flat and equal under our noses. It took only an imagination to be in one continent to another. I pointed Luzon and said “I live somewhere here, the place is called Cavite”. Then she asked if there are nice beaches in the Philippines. My fingers moved down to Visayas, and said “Boracay is a famous white sand beach among tourists and locals alike, but the best surfing point is in Siargao”, my index finger encircled Mindanao as if we just made a round trip of the island.

Her whole family enjoys water activity – canoeing, swimming, rowing, kayaking, surfing – name it, and they all good at it. Roy, Rae’s husband, still joins competition and still winning. Once, she showed me a picture of the competition where Roy and his partner were paddling immensely for the win. “I will put this on frame”, she said, her eyes filled with glint of amazement and pride. After many years of being together I could tell she is still charmed with her old man’s undying appeal. She animatedly walked me through her other photo album collection. Each page was brightened up with stories, from her black and white wedding picture to the birth of four wonderful children up to her six grandchildren. She introduced them one by one, who smiled back at me on the pages.

Every afternoon at exactly 5 o’clock, Rae and I would walk down to Copacabana Beach (10 minutes walk from her house/90mins drive from Sydney) where her husband was (and still is) a volunteer life saver. It became our afternoon routine. She would take Tiger (half Jack Russell and half Terrier) on leash and she would let me hold it until we reached a rock platform very close to the beach. I was amazed that at her age she still managed a very balance gait, stepping from rock to rock. She endured a long walk going down and up on a ladder brimful of sand (maybe that’s what healthy salad breakfast does). We strode through the heart of the rocky side of the beach. There I unleashed Tiger and Rae would throw a piece of stick for the little dog to catch. We chose to settle on a particularly smooth giant rock, offering a steady and safe hold not to mention giving our arse a bit of comfort as my bare feet dipped into salt water. There she told me about her tales of Fiji Island, where she was born, and where she learned to cook Fiji curry. She moved to Sydney, dreaming of a better life, and worked in a bank, where she met her husband. Now, both retired and living on annuity, they enjoyed the luxury of travelling from time to time. She also related to me how she used to take her grandchildren to the exact place we were sitting.
“When they were much younger, I always take them here to play, hop from rock to rock and catch sea shells” she rekindled.
“When they get tired they will gather up and sit still. They will stop whatever they’re doing and drop whatever they’re holding the moment they hear me say...One day, Nana Rae ....”, she uninterruptedly continues.

When my mother told me my grandmother died before I was born, my imagination of sitting upon knees of a bespectacled, grey-haired on a rocking chair died that instant. Since then, I only hear stories from book of “Lola Basyang” who could make prince, princess, dwarf, mermaid, and other mythical creature so real they even crept to my bedside. Listening to Rae felt like I was transported back to my childhood. However, she told me real and not made up stories with an Australian lilt that could put a little child to sleep.

Sun was still up at 6 o’clock as days were longer during summer plus daylight saving time was being applied. We decided to go back and as we walked I asked her how she managed not to feel bored in her retired days. “You have to find something to do when you reach 60 (and never ran out of it)”, she said. Later, I learned that she also writes stories for her grandchildren, concocts her own recipe, restores old picture by scrap booking, walks Tiger every afternoon, plants basil and rosemary in her garden and many other activities that a lola still manage to do.
Rae made many beautiful things out of her bony and wrinkled hands. Once home, she showed me a cushion that has a flower design neatly embroidered in the center. I automatically picked it up and ran my fingers on its knots and stitches. I got so thrilled “I have lots of cross-stitch projects but I never tried my hands on embroidery”, I said, my eyes round with excitement.

It surprised me when she brought me to Lindy’s handicraft store the next day. She bought me my own set of material and taught me how to make my first colonial knot, trellis and stem stitch the moment we got home. While engrossed to my new learned skill, she was starting a large quilt for the kids of Ronald McDonald’s House. “This should be finish by winter”, she said while trying to put thread on a needle.
I looked at her, I thought that she might be a bit tired, although she seemed like she didn’t want to rest. I asked her if she wants a cup of tea, it’s the only way I could think of to repay her generosity. She smiled as if saying “you’re my guest let me make you a cup of tea”, but said “yes please”, instead.
Quietly, while having tea and doing our own pieces of art, I glanced at her and felt how lucky I am to be at that moment. It was a wonderful experience of kindness and sincere human relation which crossed beyond nationality, language, or culture. Our brief connection weaved its own story and meaning. It was as if I am stitching the best memento of my life with a lola I never had.

Two years past, there’s no inkling that we will see each other again (well, who knows?), but her tales will be remembered, her memories, stitched to my heart.

Bulletproof Monk

I watched this movie not in HBO, damn I forgot! Anyway, its starring Yun Fat Chow as the nameless Monk and Seann William Scott as Kar. I like this particular line when Monk asked Why do hot dogs come in packages of ten, but hot dog buns only come in packages of just eight?

and Kar figured it out (much later in the film) that life doesn't always work out according to plan so be happy with what you've got, because you can always get a hot dog.

Of course a film with a Chinese cast would not end just like that without leaving a Chinese maxim - Knowing Others means you are wise, Knowing yourself means you are enlightened.

Dateless on Valentine?

Since I don't have a date this Valentine, I spend the whole afternoon blogging in cyber nook while humming "I'll be Home for Christmas", but changing Christmas to Valentine which goes...

I'll be home for Valentine,
you can count on me
Please wear thong and leather boots
And whip cream on the fridge
Cupido will find me
Where the love-light gleams.
I'll be home for Valentine
If only in my dreams.....


anyway, I found 18 Reasons why Single like me should not sulk and here are several reasons why being unattached totally rocks.

1. You'll never waste a Saturday at a car show.

2. When it comes to movies such as Scarface, Star Wars, and Band of Brothers, ignorance really is bliss.

3. You have total freedom to adopt an adorable stray kitten and name it Fluffkins.

4. Power anthems like Beyoncé's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" are more fun when you really mean the lyrics.

5. It's totally fine to give the cute bartender/waiter/barista a napkin with your phone number and the message "call me!"

6. No one will ask you to don a jersey and root for a sports team that doesn't have a shot in hell of winning a game this season.

7. You don't need to ask permission to go on a last-minute trip to Vegas with your girlfriends — or anywhere, for that matter.

8. Both sides of the bed belong to you.

9. You can devote hours to primping before a big night out — complete with a blow-out and manicure — without some dude constantly asking when you'll be ready.

10. Although you don't have a BF, you do have a collection of crushes, a.k.a. The Bagel Guy, Running Man, Sexy Irish Bartender, and Mr. Good Hair.

11. When you aren't part of a duo, it's much easier to find the time to pursue your own interests, like training for a marathon or writing a screenplay.

12. The City and Gossip Girl are even more enjoyable when you don't have to flip to SportsCenter during the commercial break.

13. There's no need to stress about impressing a guy's mother, sister, boss, or any other VIP in his life.

14. With more time to work out and less temptation to chow down on guy-friendly junk food, you're more likely to squeeze into the skinniest of skinny jeans.

15. TiVo understands you — not someone with an addiction to Family Guy.

16. Without a guy on your arm, it's much easier to get into clubs without paying a cover charge. Not to mention scoring free drinks.

17. No one is keeping track of how much money you spend on shoes.

18. You never know who you'll have sex with next.

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/you/advice/reasons-to-love-being-single

For the Love of Words

My opponent scored forty two higher than me. It was my turn to move. Beads of sweat started to build up on my forehead. In the corner of my eye, a mocking grin was clearly flashed as if saying “I speak English, you can’t beat me!” followed by an exaggerated yawn. If there are 600,000 words in English dictionary then there was no any reason to pass a turn. I could do this. I couldn't take defeat, not from a snooty bloke from down-under who short cut mosquitoes to mossies, lollipop to lollies and spell “a lot” (when he means abundant) in one word with a double L. Besides, Webster had always been a constant buddy since grade school and he would never let me down since.

I recalled when I first get hooked to Scrabble (and I never traded it to my brother’s game boy or brick game), I was 12 years old then. Every night, my aunt would always come to our house just to play scrabble with mom until midnight. When they lay the board ready on the table, I would pull a chair and watch intently and would even volunteer to take the score for them so I could stay up late. Seeing them having fun groping with words out of tiles, I would asked if I could join them. But as a young girl with limited vocabulary, they do not find me challenging and definitely a mismatch for them.

One day, when mom was out and my aunt was not around to play, I took the board from its hiding place, near a shoe rack. I hurriedly fetched my schoolmate who happened to be a neighbor and showed her the board game so excitedly as if I found a rare treasure. I thought she’d feel the same excitement I felt, but her face didn’t even light up a bit. I tried to explain the mechanics and rules hoping she would be interested, but she remained dry and motionless. She said she’d rather play skipping rope if not “piko” than sit down and form words out of wooden tiles. I was a bit frustrated but I never lost my enthusiasm. So I played alone taking two heads in one game. I pulled out a red hardbound dictionary out on its shelf and laid it down beside the board game as I was very sure that I would need it.


Continues practice helped me learn quickly. My vocabulary broadened after a while. Although mom considered me a lame opponent, she still played with me once in a while. But through her witty maneuver, my techniques developed. Planning ahead to create a long word enabled me to use all tiles in one turn, thus, giving me a higher points. A bit more round and I was learning to avoid my opponent easy access to bonus point square. I was learning fast and at last, winning. Scrabble gave me the rush of endorphins, in the process giving my brain a bit of exercise while beating someone across my seat. It benefited me academically, my mathematical skill improved. The awful lot of counting up words in different direction made me pass my Arithmetic subject.

On our recognition day, I accepted a piece of paper with my name on it, written in stylish font and bold ink, above was written in all caps... BEST IN SPELLING. I thought spelling is an important skill, but to mom who walked with me through the stage whispered, “I’ll be happy to play scrabble with you again because you made me proud!” My heart was pounding with joy and I felt like I accepted a valedictorian award that day. As I strode back to my seat I whispered, “Thanks to my Butts”, my eyes still glittering with pride.



Yes, if it weren’t for Alfred Butts and his genius invention 60 years ago from today, I wouldn’t be acquainted with words that have become my teacher, my playmate and my friend. Then called Lexico and later changed to Criss-Cross, but it was the “Scrabble” that has found a new life in me not only as a game but a learning tool. And unlike other electronic gadgets that turn obsolete over time, this forgotten game board remain its ingenuity. For almost three generations, the validity of tile distribution and basic cryptographic analysis of English language have remained accurate and effective as tested over billions of games played.



My mom just shrugged her shoulder when she saw that I bought a Scrabble Deluxe with turntable which cost equivalent to 20 regular wooden type.

“I’m the one to blame why you turn nut over that board game” she said.

Today, no more a kid, but the sight of scrabble still elates me. New words keeps coming, dictionary is still present on every match I play. However, sick of counting, I let my niece, who happily volunteer to count the score and nudge players to play their move.

Right! It was still my turn!

“Here you go, mate!” I said as I place Q on triple letter score forming T O Q U E vertically and Q I (pronounce as chi) horizontally. That move gave me sixty nine points and only 2 tiles away from winning. Poor “Aussie” who almost fell on his seat, asked what the hell is toque? I handed him an old Webster dictionary while I lift my hand to cover a yawn that whips his ass and spell “L O S E R”.

Palindrome Fanatic

I am fascinated with words especially words that reads the same forward or backward.

Don't nod
Dogma: I am God
Never odd or even
Too bad – I hid a boot
Rats live on no evil star
No trace; not one carton
Was it Eliot's toilet I saw?
Murder for a jar of red rum
May a moody baby doom a yam?
Go hang a salami; I'm a lasagna hog!
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas!
A Toyota! Race fast... safe car: a Toyota
Straw? No, too stupid a fad; I put soot on warts
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Doc Note: I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention
Anne, I vote more cars race Rome to Vienna
Sums are not set as a test on Erasmus
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak
Some men interpret nine memos
Campus Motto: Bottoms up, Mac
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Madam, in Eden I'm Adam
Oozy rat in a sanitary zoo
Ah, Satan sees Natasha
Lisa Bonet ate no basil
Do geese see God?
God saw I was dog
Dennis sinned

Meeting my Literary Mom & Dad

I attended the 1st Philippine International Writers Festival at Pulungang Claro M. Recto, Bulwagang Rizal,UP Diliman. I came to observe, meet and listen to writers whose works I have read and admired. It feels good to be around with a crowd of intellectuals (feeling ko I'm also one hehehe!). The beautiful melody of Kolintang joined the murmuring of the audience and participants who were all lined up at the registration table. My friends and I spotted Dr. Marj after we have signed our name. She waved her hand to greet us. Beside her was the National Artist, F. Sionil Jose, who was wearing his signature hat with a black cane to match a simple elegant look. We managed to find a seat next to him intending to take some pictures. Dr. Marj was quick to introduce us to him as her students, and next thing we knew we were already shaking hands. He asked me what do I write,I said " Aside from grocery list and things to do, I am learning the art of lies and poetry" He chuckled and went back to my main intention: take a picture with him. =)

I met more writers like Butch Dalisay, Cristina-Pantoja Hidalgo, Gemino Abad, Tara FT Sering, Katrina Tuvera, Rio Alma, Beni Santos, Rebecca Anonuevo, Pete Lacaba,Sarge Lacuesta, Mookie Katigbak, Neil Garcia, Dr. Ronald Baytan, Dr. Isagani Cruz, Dr. Marj Evasco, whose literary work had been my inspiration for a more creative and artistic pursuit.

Alcoholic Anonymous

I started looking for symptoms of alcoholism because I thought a member of the family could be or is already one. I checked 5 out of 7 signs of alcohol dependence written below.


* Neglect of other Activities: Important social, occupational, or recreational activities are given up or reduced because of alcohol use;

* Excessive Use: Alcohol is consumed in larger amounts over a longer period than intended;

* Impaired control: Ongoing, unsuccessful efforts to cut down or control alcohol consumption;

* Persistence of Use: Alcohol consumption is continued despite knowledge of having a persistent or recurrent physical or psychological problem that is likely caused or exacerbated by alcohol;

* Large Amounts of Time Spent in Alcohol Related Activities: A great deal of time is spent in activities necessary to obtain, use or recover from the effects of alcohol;

* Withdrawal: Withdrawal symptoms, such as nausea, sweating, shakiness, and anxiety when alcohol use is stopped after a period of heavy drinking;

* Tolerance: The need for increasing amounts of alcohol in order to feel its effects.

hearts affair

What about them....



...who would love them on Valentine?

A Reading of Uncertain Terms

The poem uses the device of ekphrasis using the woman as the persona. The immediate appeal of this poem derives from the images - cards, candles, flames, alone, sitting down – it presents. These details blend together to create a picture of melancholy, thus, giving justice for the persona to long for a happy ending. It enhances the original art by giving it a new angle of presentation.
The poem is structured in tight form using two stanza patterns.
I am also stirred to know further about the persona; like, what specific happy ending does the persona wants. e.g. reunion of a lover, liberty, authority. Adding more detail will strengthen its insight, and maybe, specificity will bring more weight to the resolution of the poem. Also, the word “motionless” in the second line defeats the purpose of ekphrasis: make the painting move. Recapturing the movement of the woman in the painting will make the line more precise.

The Power of the TITLE

I think that the writer missed an opportunity by not titling his work, because it’s the first thing a reader sees and the last thing that he or she remembers about a poem.
In this poem, a familiar account from Greek mythology is used in association of the story; Narcissus being the lover of the persona, and Apollo as the third party.
The opening line of the poem, “See a sea”, sounds like a pun. It is followed by mere description of the backdrop: sound, vastness and lonely trenches. Many lines such as /Mermaids and solemn creatures/ Dance with its brutal blows/, serve as ornament, yet fails to embody an idea or feelings that will lead me to know the intention of the poem. The language used appears to be fancy and veers away from the true intention of the poem e.g. /Hides in Orrinoco flows/ from my lunar mirrors/He sees a foreign country/. There are lines that seem to be repetitive in meaning or allusion, making the verse suffers from mixed metaphors e.g. /A blue portrait/ in the blue blanket/Echoed in the moons of my eyes/ dissolves from my lunar mirror/. The poem needed to be condensed in form and structure, so that reader will not be swept by on the swift and splendid roundabout of the verse. I remember Coleridge famous words:” Whatever lines in poetry can be translated into other words of the same language without diminutions of their significance...are so far vicious in their diction.”
The experience that the poem wants to tell is rather more explaining than presenting. I also find the denouement of the abandoned lover feeble, maybe because the poem gives more emphasis on the landscape more than the insight. If the poem wants to bring out the experience on the theme of a love triangle, betrayal or abandonment, I think that the poem needs to find a new way or a new angle of telling the story to avoid being trite in material. It is better to use concrete images to be more evocative so that the experience of the persona will also be my own experience as the reader, in the sense that I can also feel betrayed or angry or cheated if that is the feeling the poem wants to evoke.

Decrypting Reggie's Calligraphy

I view this poem as dealing with the experience of recapturing what has been lost; a pleasant process of recollection and evocation of the absence. It uses three stanza patterns, involving short lines which make for a smooth flowing cadence. The words make heaps of pictures in the mind. The color and imagery of the lines such as /I take the brush/and lightly tip/ its obsidian edge with liquid coal/ appeals to the mind’s eye, the visualizer. /Carefully I twirl this bamboo wand and wave swirls of meaning/ brings an effect of capturing the scene at the right angle in slow motion.
I think, the word, carefully, in second stanza may be deleted without affecting the essence of the poem. Without a qualifier, I can still imagine the twirl and the deftly stroke of the hand doing the art, which, I believe, is never done carelessly. It will also bring accord to the reflective mood of the persona because the line will be shorter.
/Recreating your presence/ exhibits the sense or the idea of the poem, the other lines portray its feeling. However, there seems to be some part of the story that needs to be unleashed for it to convey its complete and true meaning. The presence being recreated becomes a puzzle to me, and I am left to guess whether it is a person, an event or maybe an old feeling. But there is nothing in the text to confirm.

author's reply

Grace, I'm delighted that my book inspired you and I'm thrilled to have you as a fan. I also think it's great that you are interested in writing as an outlet for the creativity that you can't use in your job. Here's my advice: Becoming a competent writer begins with being an avid reader. Pick up a copy of my book Verbal Advantage and follow my five principles for effective reading (the discussion begins on page 58). A good writer also needs a large and precise vocabulary, and Verbal Advantage can help you with that; you may also be interested in my two vocabulary-building novels, Tooth and Nail and Test of Time. Finally, don't let your desire to write something substantial stand in the way of simply beginning to write. To write well you have to accept that there will be many false starts, many failures, and a hell of a lot of hard work. So start small. Keep a journal. Write to your friends and family. Write short poems and prose pieces. And above all, follow the Knickerbocker Rule: "Apply ass to chair." You must be diligent and patient if you want to succeed. Good words to you! -- Charlie Harrington Elster

It was written three years ago. Reading it again refuels me to keep going.

http://members.authorsguild.net/chelster/disc.htm

What if

What if I'm not writing this.
What if I take a real job and quit graduate school.
What if I live somewhere else like a country or farm.
What if my eyes are perfect, I don't need to wear eyeglasses or contact lenses.
What if I can finish reading a book in one hour, that's 576 book in one day (if I read 24hrs)
What if I'm good in Math and took Engineering or Statistics instead.
What if I'm a mother of a twin.
What if Gloria is not the president.
What if I can travel the whole wide world and write about it.
What if I publish it abroad
What if I'm Obama's daughter
What if there's no more dreaming (Freud wouldn't be famous)
What if it wasn't my fault that my cat died
What if I can write my name in Calligraphy
What if I only have one day to live
What if Wentworth Miller asks me to marry him before I die
What if all these make sense
What if I do not ponder so often

A Reading of Relief Map of the Philippines by Sid Cruz

The ‘Relief Map of the Philippines’, in its ingenious and tight form, contains a strong cultural and social awakening. The poem achieved a subtle way of juxtaposing the /replica of the archipelago/ with the shallowness of looking into one’s country, like how we have known our country only by its external form, and that it consists of 7,100 islands.

The use of the pronoun ‘we’ is sly. The ‘we’ could be the persona and the group of companion who visits the Rizal Park, or ‘we’, the Filipino ourselves. If it is the latter, reading the poem seems like hitting the ‘Pinoy’ without him ever knowing it, because the poem is presented in a way of giving an impression of vivid personal experience, but still, it is of interest to all since it concerns all.

Gemino Abad is correct in his essay (As Imagined as lived: Sense for Language, Sense of Country) that “one’s sense of country is more image than concept, more feeling than thought.”Like the poem, it tells us that it takes intrinsic knowledge, like how the image of people through language could define what really makes a country, beyond knowing its extrinsic form and shape. The persona hears dito becomes diri... dinhi as if it is something foreign, but the 13th line: a strange conversation calls me back, means a sense of awakening or a realization that he still in his own country. Then “I” becomes “we” in the 15th line, not giving himself an exemption, in the way of looking our country as if giving a look from above; distant, unconnected, or just like passing by as if we were birds. The true concept of the poem becomes an isometric representation of way of seeing the Philippines as country.
I think that the choice of words mean to raise association and meaning, and concerns less of the sound or rhythm because it sound closely to a travel narrative. I also wonder why out of 7100 islands the poet chooses to use Cebu twice.
The poem uses modern diction. It expresses the quintessence of the whole experience of the persona and thoughtfully, each line applies scenes and is wrought at a higher emotion by the last line of the poem.

I was once a Prison Break addict

Brothers by birth
Best friends by choice
We chose a different path,
Still I hear your voice.

My brother, you watched me
Though I didn’t see
But in the morning in my bedside,
I saw a bird called origami.

You have given me care
Sacrifices you have shared
You protected me
From the world’s most fatal dare.

Framed-up by The Company
Now seated on the death row
If they think I’ll leave you carelessly
They massively underestimated me.

Incarcerated myself to take you out of prison
For you to break free is my only reason
I know a pathway, a trail to liberty
I only not seen the blue print
I have it with me.

Though it’ll cost my freedom
Still I will pursue
So don’t ask any more questions,
Because this is the part where I don’t
answer you.

Believe in me my brother
“Just have a little faith!”
I’ll explain no further,
Let’s just say...
I was there when Fox River was made.

scrapbooking is also for men

Scrapbooking can frequently be viewed as a woman's hobby. There are however, many instances throughout the long history of this popular craft where men have played significant roles in developing the art that is loved by millions of hobbyists today. Unfortunately, the pull for men in scrapbooking was often the money, while there is plenty of evidence that some of them truly did enjoy scrapbooking as a hobby. Here are some of the finer achievements of men in scrapbooking history.

- In the mid 1800's, London based "W. H. Rock" began producing leather albums with pre-printed pages of flowers and birds. These albums became popular for scrapbooking hobbyists.

- In 1857, the production of "carte-de-vista" albums, containing photograph pockets, became popular.

- Mark Twain, best known for Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn invented "Mark Twain's Adhesive Scrapbook" with pre-pasted pages. This idea was one of his most loved business adventures, possibly because it earned him over $50,000. Don't be too easily fooled, however, because Mark Twain enjoyed scrapbooking so much that he devoted his Sunday afternoon to keeping his scrapbooking albums up to date.

- Thomas Jefferson was an addicted scrapbooker. His albums included news clippings, drawings, and dried leaves. Men in the eighteenth century helped to produce "Dutch Gilt" or "Dutch Flowered Papers" (lithography or stenciling in Holland or Germany) using wood, metal, or blocks. Originally intended to line cupboards, these patterns quickly became a favorite in the scrapbooks of the day.

- In the 1870's companies began mass producing embossed paper for use in scrapbooking albums.

- While stickers, iron-on letters, buttons, rubber stamps, and metal accents are used today in scrapbooking, the Prang Company developed "album cards" for use in scrapbooks of the nineteenth century. These sets of ten cards were pictures of birds, flowers, or landscapes to be used in scrapbooks.

- Most nineteenth century scrapbooks have "calling cards" in them. These decorated cards were left by guests at the host's home. They eventually made their way into many scrapbooks because of the fond memories of wonderful parties and dances, not just by women, but, as you have already guessed, by men.

inculcating Dr. Isagani Cruz's lesson one Saturday morning

I believe I can write about stories of falling in love,sacrifice,betrayal,losing,dreaming,friendship,family, but not about politics. I believe my work will be published. I believe I can write better than Sheryl Germain, Jeffrey Archer, Kimi Tuvera, Butch Dalisay, Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, and other authors I read. I believe I can write a piece for Palanca. I believe I can write better, if not, then I wouldn't be writing.

A Reading of "Family Legend"

Family Legend is a quatrain which I view as satire in approach, yet reveals the truth about tragic violence; that it exists even in the family we thought could keeps us safe. It is showing rather than telling while action keeps constantly in motion. It introduces characters by exhibiting them in action like in drama. It concerns more in stirring the emotion of the reader than with the matter of the story whether if it is complete. And because the poem is brief, quick and pointed, which resides in its suggestiveness of deliberate details, it draws me to look over again and introspect.

/Once lost, a child buried itself in a pile of lace/ gave me a picture of a child wrapped or hidden in lace. The mother must needed succur or something more divine when she /searched in vain for her rosary/; an implication of tension or an impending conflict.

The second and third stanza summons up an image of a place or setting, probably near the water with some formation of rocks, where the father has fled, and armed with bullet shell - because I didn’t take the crab literally. I also find difficulty imagining the tiny semi aquatic fetuses in my mind. But seeing the father on the cliff, I thought that he is seeing the tiny water vessels or boats that look like semi aquatic fetuses from afar. But then again, it seems odd. The gaps in the story tends to lose the logic of event, when from the cliff, /he summoned the woman and drew his gun/.

When the rosary, which is, maybe, made by coral beads scattered, I pictures the mother fell down, and soon died. /When a bullet dropped into the ocean/, it made me think the killing must be done on the shore for the bullet to have dropped into the ocean, but the father was still on the cliff, did he went down when he summons the mother? The transition of the scene was not very clear, and therefore hard to follow.
But collaborating with the narrative leads me into thinking that the father, the villain, walks away from his crime just like how the sea washes away evidence of the crime.
Again, it leads me more into thinking that this poem is also a dealing of every family we belong to: society, church, country, our own family etc., and the conflict is an inevitable part of it that we must survive on.

A reading of "Mananahi'

The indirect approach is suggestive without identifying the thing to which allusion is made. The title, Mananahi, is a distinctive character that orients the reader immediately. It jump-starts by introducing the conflict right away. The first and second line of the poem becomes more than mere description; by using Simile as a poetic tool, it adds dimension to the subject, arousing the senses of sight and kinaesthesia.
Parang digmaan ang pagpasok ng sinulid
Ubod hirap sa tuwina’y may balakid;

The third and fourth line uses a device of repetition called the normal refrain wherein it repeats the exact idea of the first and second line.
Sa karayom na butas ay napakakitid,
Oras lilipad walang tagumpay na hatid.

The second and third stanza illustrates hardship, persistence and dissatisfaction making it the incremental repetition of the first stanza.

The poem maintains a uniform rhythmical pattern by a recurring beat in the end of each line. The last words of first and second line of first and third stanza uses a triple exact device: sinulid -balakid, matusok – mapusok.

My initial interpretation of the poem depicting a general idea of achieving a dream the hard way was drawn into a more specific interpretation of a sensuous resolution. The choice of words has a sexual implication: karayom, sinulid, hubad, ipasok, bukana. The significance of the implied attitude, brought by words lifted, appears as the poem develops, and showing rather than telling takes precedence. It resembles the erotic poetry of Stephen Corey called Redundancies, where it means to arouse without using any statements, or words, that are directly or exclusively sexual, yet it is clear, simultaneous, and mysterious.

I think that the indirect allusion is subtle, assuming that I am close to what the poem wants to tell. The word digmaan for instance, is a strong word, connoting two parties struggling for something. The first line of second stanza introduces another character, other than mananahi as the subject, by using the word “iyong”.

The last two line of the poem is a personification of a couple making love; karayom and sinulid becomes two characters personifying a man and a woman with ardent emotion and intense passion, and captures the experience of sex through words.

Hangang sa hubad na sinulid at karayom
Ay magsanib. Magniig. Sa sugat na hilom.

my letter to an author

Dear Mrs. Tuvera-Quimbo,

You would probably wonder why I am sending you an email when I can simply write to you on your Facebook wall or leave a two pages letter in your pigeonhole. Alright! I confess, this letter is for a requirement in my creative non-fiction class. But I hope you won’t get me wrong. I wanted to let you know how much your stories and our brief encounter influenced me in my development as a reader and as an aspiring writer. But it is always harder to tell all that in person because I am naturally shy, beside that I don’t know how to approach you. In fact, I am glad that my professor made this as a requirement because I know it will serve a double purpose.
When I read your short story collection, Testament and Other Short Stories, I want to know whether you are aware (when you were writing the story) that you are creating characters portraying a sense of loss, and decided to carry the theme for the whole collection? The Flight, for instance, where the main character recalls her memories of her Uncle who left when she was only nine; Testament, where the protagonist broods over her inability to bear a child, and that no one, after her, will validate her existence when she dies; Marion and A Passing Life seemed to have depicted the same sense of losing someone. Right! I know I really need not to summarize. But, you see, I try to read the stories thoroughly as I studied how they were structured, not just scan through them and show and tell my friends an autographed copy of your book. I realized I wanted to emulate those authors I read by borrowing their style as I continue to develop my own, and maybe someday someone will want to borrow mine.

Thinking about what’s happening in the stories, the next question I had in mind is that whether they (the characters) are imagined people or somehow a self depicted portrait of the author. Though I guess that it’s a little bit of both, I realized as what Stephen Koch said in his book, The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop, “It doesn’t really matter much whether your characters are modeled on yourself, on somebody else, or on nobody at all. It is in the realm of invention that you invent every single one of them in exactly the same way you invent the story.”

I remembered, I once mentioned that I particularly like Marion and A Passing Life among the other stories. However, when I reread all the stories in the collection, I realized how I under-read the Testament. It must be something special to think that it carries the title of the book. True enough because I noticed how the foreshadowing of the impending conflict was written in a subtle way, maybe it’s the same reason why I needed to look back over and read again. It must be what Shirley Lua also meant when she noted about your style:
Her strategy of holding back is decisive to suggest something more, to bid the mind still before taking a leap, to stand still on the edge and see the vast timescape. The silences between words, as much as the deliberate details, allow readers space for introspection. (Reframing the nation By Shirley O. Lua Inquirer)

Reading it the first time, I thought that the conflict lies with the character’s not being able to sleep or her being insomniac, but it is in giving the story a closer look that I discover a much deeper need of the character. It’s good to understand by what you mean, when you commented on my story, on how to create a character; that we don’t think of them as “characters” but as living, breathing people we’ve met or could possibly meet in real life with all their complexities and contradictions; that being inside their mind is just like magic.

Now, when I try to invent my own story, and get stuck in the middle, I read again more stories; yours and others. I haven’t given up on Jeffrey Archer, but I move on reading and discovering works of other Filipino writers.

You know when I decided (though I honestly think that I’m a bit too late) to study Creative Writing, almost a year ago, I wasn’t expecting to see you sat in front of the class, because the form that bore my class schedule stated that my professor is a Mr. But for a departmental or whatever reason, you turned out to be my mentor, and that made all the difference.

P.S.
I chose A Passing Life to be my subject for my Psychoanalysis Study in Lit Crit class last term. Maybe it wasn’t that bad to get a grade of 3.00. And one last thing, will you sign my copy of The Jupiter Effect?

Text a Poem

This is indeed a fun challenge!(as if poetry wrkshop with Dr. Marj is not challenging enough...Ugh)=)


Join Tex Tula for Arts Month 2009! 01.22.2009
As part of the celebration of the National Arts Month-Philippine International Arts Festival 2009, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts and Sining Gising TV program launch "Text Tula."

Text Tula invites all Filipinos to send a quatrain (four lines) in Filipino languages and dialects. Entries must be on the sub-theme "Sa Sining, Bida ang Pinoy sa Galing."

Five winners will be selected weekly who will receive P500 worth of load for mobile phones.
Entries can be submitted to the following numbers:
(for Smart/ Talk and Text) 0920-9514916 / 0928-3482991
(for Globe and Touch Mobile) 0926-6562210
(for Sun) 0923-3553719

Or email through sininggising@yahoo.com

Winners will be announced and posted weekly.

For queries, please contact Mr. Wilyan Maglente at 5272192.

on Diet

I always promise myself that I will start a healthy diet, but I cannot simply do it. With all the temptations lurking in the corner plus friends with a hearty appetite around... My promises are only expected to be broken.

I heard about this banana diet and I wonder if I give it a try.


A new diet born on the Internet in Japan

As elsewhere, people in Japan who are trying to lose weight gather together on internet forums and social networking sites to pick up diet tips and give each other support. Recently on Mixi, one of the most popular social networking sites in Japan, the diet musings of one of the members and the enthusiastic contributions of others in the community coalesced to produce a new and simple diet program that has jumped into the mainstream Japanese media and resulted in three books and many magazine articles. This diet was dubbed the Asa Banana Diet. Japan is known for kaizen, the gradual refinement and improvement of manufacturing and other processes, and the Asa Banana Diet is in effect Japan’s kaizen of a diet classic, the Banana Diet.

http://morningbanana.com/

The Don'ts of Writing Nonfiction

Lessons and tips for working on specific aspects of your writing.
—From WD's Writer's Workbook section

1. DON’T LIE OR EXAGGERATE in nonfiction.

2. DON’T SWITCH NAMES OR DETAILS without checking your editor’s policy for editorial changes.

3. DON’T TRASH SOMEBODY IN ANGER and rush those pages into publication.

4. DON’T ASSUME everybody likes to be written about or will appreciate your portrayal. (Some private people hate even positive mentions of themselves in print.)

5. DON’T TELL ONLY ONE SIDE of a story or character. Murderers and monsters often had horrible childhoods that might illuminate their pathology.

Anxiety Levels for Writers

What if the Office of Homeland Security developed a color-coded warning chart for the anxiety level of writers?

THOREAU SYLVAN GREEN
Your muse not only polishes story blobs into sparkling gems, but also repairs your car’s transmission and mends your relationship with your parents. At night your muse nestles beside you in bed and whispers sublime opening lines to new stories. Every morning she makes you hand-squeezed orange juice and pancakes in the shape of Alfred Nobel’s profile. She never leaves your side.

MARK TWAIN RIVER BLUE
What a promising pile of index cards, napkins and gum wrappers you have! They’re filled with evocative words like “penance,” “revenge” and “lust.” Before you begin writing each morning, your muse makes you an iced coffee. She massages your back as she guides your cursor across the screen. Before she leaves you alone at night, she murmurs, “Fear not, Word Warrior, you shall win this battle.”


FLANNERY O’CONNOR PORCH LIGHT YELLOW
One morning you find your manuscript lying in the cat’s litter box. Your muse swears a gust of wind must have blown it in there. She says you’re a talented and soulful writer, and she would never, ever disparage your words. Your tabby cat jumps up and down on your desk and points his paw at your muse. She picks him up and coos, “Ah, sweet little kitty thinks you’re a fine writer, too.”

VIRGINIA WOOLF ORANGE SUNSET
It’s 3 a.m. Your computer screen is snow-blind white. Your notebook pages are slick with your own drool. The blinking cursor hypnotizes you into mumbling, “I should have gone to business school.” Your muse steals your cell phone and chats for hours with other writers she considers far more talented than you—some living in Bulgaria. You only receive an occasional text message: “R U NUTZ?”

EDGAR ALLAN POE BLOOD RED
You run into an ex-classmate from your “Beginning Fiction” workshop. He’s the twit who always confused Raymond Carver with Raymond Burr. He says he’s just sold his first novel for $1 million. “Wanna tend bar at my book party?” he asks. A black limousine pulls up beside you and the driver lowers the window. It’s your missing muse! She blows you a kiss and drives away with your ex-classmate.

Check link for more interesting article http://www.writersdigest.com/

sojourn in national bookstore

When I need to be away from the four corners of my room, I go either to Power Book or National bookstore. Sometimes I go to buy a book. Other times I just run my fingers through the cover after reading the synopsis. Most of the time, I sniff between the pages like a heroin addict. But, today I did the whole thing. The buying part was not actually in my plan but my determination not to fumble a single cent in my pocket was only an unsuccessful attempt.




I bought Marne Kilates's Poetry Collection, Mostly in Monsoon Weather, and Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo's Passages Selected Travel Essays.

Getting ready for my travel narrative for CNF and Poetry Workshop class! =p

Free Writing

I did one of the exercises in Newman's book "Writing from the Heart". It is a technique in which I write for a certain amount of time without stopping. Actually, the idea is not speed writing, but write continuously.

So here it goes

I am inside my room, lying on my stomach as I write this. I am trying to do at least two exercises from Newman's book each day. It is five minutes before 1 o'clock in the morning. My brother is still watching the inauguration of Barrack Obama on TV. He is the one who always tease me. I told him that I have a job interview tomorrow in Paranaque and asked him to give me some money. He went to his room to get his wallet and gave me fifty pesos."What!"I said, "How will i get back home with fifty pesos? I might not even reach the office with this." He just said "take it or leave it". So, I took it. I must sleep early tonight for the scheduled job interview tomorrow. He jokes about missing my 'shift' tonight. Remember he gave me the title of being the'lady guard of the house,' because I stayed up so late. He also thought that that I am living the life of such. Maybe he feels good when he is being mean to me or maybe he thinks he is being cute. I wonder when will he grow up or if he will ever grow up. He acts as if I am older than him. He doesn't feel embarrass of doing silly things like talking to himself or pretending of having a dialogue with my 2 years old nephew, who isn't with us and actually living in Dubai. He would call him(my nephew) "bebes" to mean baby facing a picture frame on top of our television set. That is just one of the silly things he does. He used to bug me to download music to his mp3. Now, he bugs me to find a job immediately, so I can buy him a PSP (slim Type). And what do I get in exchange? fifty pesos. Oh god! Please help me so I can buy my big brother his PSP, so he would stop calling me "the Vamp" (short for Vampire) or the " night-shift lady guard".

just a bite

I wrote another poem, wishing, at least, it could be considered as one and not just another effusion. I called it A Bite


I swallowed the beast I used to tend
too late, now I'm sure my life will end
One bite and then I see
A naked man before me

As if my eyes were opened.

Understanding Poetry

I attempted to understand a friend's poetry.

Agas

Munting Katawan sa init ay salat,
Basurang sa damuhan ikinalat.

Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
itim na plastik ang naging saplot.

Nanay sana ang kaulayaw,
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw.

Karupukan daw dito ang kanilang paliwanag,
sa mga obligasyon lamang daw sila ay naduwag.

Sa tulad ba nila'y anong nararapat?
Ang isang patawad lamang ba ay sapat.

I am more familiar with its synonymous term ‘agos’,which means a swift current or a sudden flow. In this context, it connotes human impulse or an act of whim. Here, it creates a deeper take of its meaning by using it as the controlling idea in the poem. Meaning, the image that the poem represents, as a whole, connects the central idea of which has been signaled by the title.

The synthesis of the idea and image works in an intuitive and symbolic way therefore, giving an insight of the entire poem:
/Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
Itim na plastic ang naging saplot/.

I associate “puting lampin” to a “newborn” supposedly clothe not by black garbage plastic. With the synthesis, I understand the context of the poem by association.

Another thing I want to highlight is the emotional tone impressed towards the end of the poem. It ends with a question directed towards the mother(s) of the unborn child/ (children). Yet, the poet’s intention is neither to condemn nor to rebuke, but to awaken sympathy for the unborn child/children supported with the images beforehand:
/nanay sana ang kaulayaw.
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw/.

The emotional significance is endowed by Irish’s imagination when she employs vivid images and description. Consequently, appealing not only to the visualizing power, but also to the heart and soul of a reader as I find balance between the emotion and idea of the poem.

draft

I wrote the first draft of the poem. I want to make the image of lightning vivid.


I call it "A Stroke of Lightning"

His voice, like thunder
rumbling through my head -
frightens me, trembles me,
occurs when the lightning
splits the heaven and
strikes the earth.

At night when I sleep
the roaring thunder creeps -
feigning like a lullaby;
silencing an outcry
pinning me down
far deep

When morning comes,
an uproar fades -
the lightning hits
the same spot twice;
leaving no blister
not even a trace

Yet, when mother asks me
not to tell a soul -
I see the stains
on the hem of my skirt, and
feel the flare
burning even more.

5% magic

I enjoy putting my nose between pages of books. Each book has distinctive smell. Maoui says I might develop an Asthma, but I don't believe her and not even care. Anyway, my favorite, so far, are the pages in the hardbound book of Harry Potter (book7) which smells like a fresh morning in Australia (it's sad that the smell of morning in the Philippines has gone stale). I found out the pages were made of 30% post consumer recycled fiber (whatever that is!) and 65% came from the forest. The other 5% was not revealed, but I guess it was the magic that enables me to transport from one continent to another.

write a poem

I want to write a poem that will juxtapose an image of 'lightning' to a subject of incest. I will call it "A Stroke of Lightning".

reading vs. job interview

I was supposed to have a job interview in Mandaluyong, but I chose not to go. Instead, I took a bath, put on a clean clothes and continue my attempt to 'close read' Mookie Katigbak's and Sid Cruz's poetry.

I read a new book called 'Writing From the Heart' by Leslea Newman. Reading her introduction made me feel that what I have to say matters.

billion pages

I have written my close reading of Joel Toledo's Makahiya, hoping at least I had given it justice. I was hunting symbols around the text and thought that the art of reading symbolically is, in itself, creative.

My eyes sore and teary. My consolation is that all these unfinished assignments, fragmentary thoughts and effusion still has worth (so much that I am writing about it) and is completing another purpose in my journal (alright! blog then). But more than the grade this journal/blog promised, I aim to write from top to bottom of the page until not one page is left blank. Not because I have so much to say, but if there is something I can be good at, then I want to be good in writing. Maybe, if I learn the craft and write on a thousand, million, billion pages, then maybe I can be good at it.